


skin pressed red

by ifllamascouldfly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Gore, Post-Episode: s10e03 Soul Survivor, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 18:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3082523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifllamascouldfly/pseuds/ifllamascouldfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>all he can see is red lights and a red shirt and a red hammer handle and red blood spilling from his head with bits of brain and bone mixed in but that’s not real it’s not real it’s not real-</p><p>Dean is cured, and Sam is fine. He's fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	skin pressed red

**Author's Note:**

> This took forever to write, and it's not even close to done, but I was tired of seeing it rot in my hard-drive so I'm posting one part now, and I'll post the rest as I finish cleaning it up.

It’s three am and he’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at a steak knife that Dean left on the cutting board after dinner, and he doesn’t think of the way Dean’s fingers curved over the knife like they belonged there, and he ignores the way his hands tremble just looking at it, and he’s a little bit drunk off whiskey and relief.

 

There’s a crash from somewhere deep inside the bunker, and a muffled curse, and he knows it’s probably just Dean dropping a book on his foot, because Dean’s smart and isn’t actually that bad at research and all the books they’ve been looking at these days were written at a time when hardcover books were the way to go and it’s just Dean in his room, two hallways and a half away, cursing at a book, but it’s loud and Dean sounds angry and Sam’s on his knees with his hands over his ears and his eyes closed because all he can see is red lights and a red shirt and a red hammer handle and red blood spilling from his head with bits of brain and bone mixed in but that’s not real it’s not real it’s _not real_ -

 

It takes him a half hour to calm down, and he hides the steak knife behind the oven before he stumbles back into his room.

 

-

 

He’s fine, though. He is. Really.

 

He says it to Dean once, when his brother gives him that narrow-eyed look that always precedes an awkward cough and an awkward shuffle and an awkward _are you okay_ and he doesn’t want any more awkward, can’t stand the thought of watching Dean huff out the sentence like the words are teeth being pulled from his mouth, so he heads it off with an _I’m fine_ and Dean is obviously still recovering because he just shrugs and lopes back off into his room.

 

He says it to Castiel a dozen times over the phone because Cas is his friend and he sounds worn out and exhausted but he sounds more worried about Sam and apologetic for not being there and _I’m sorry, Sam, I just couldn’t let Hannah handle this herself_ and _are you sleeping_ and _you need to eat, Sam_ and _the sky is beautiful today_ and Sam is tired. He tells Cas that he’s okay, and hangs up on his _you’re really not_.

 

He says it at the pale face in the mirror and under his breath so often the words lose meaning and he’s just whispering white noise to himself, drowning out everything else.

 

But really. He’s fine.

 

Cross his heart and hope to die.

 

( _mm, you’d like that, wouldn’t you sammy? such a liar, sammy. you’re gonna burn._)

 

-

 

He leaves the lights on and lies down on his bed and the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans is digging into his back. He knows he should remove it, should check the safety and out it on the bedside table, or at least keep it under his pillow, but he can’t. The mattress is stiff and the lights hurt his eyes and his street clothes are uncomfortable and his sling is too tight and his boots are heavy and he cannot sleep. He has to stay awake. Has to make sure he hears every step Dean takes down the hallways and push down the exhaustion that clouds his mind and shake off the little voice in his head that sounds like Dean that’s laughing, harsh and loud, torn metal on torn metal, and the laugh rings in his ears long after he claps his hands over them.

 

He _can’t_ sleep.

 

Dean knows how to pick a lock. He can kick down a door. A hammer can break through wood. Sam knows this. It doesn’t stop him from rolling off his bed, turning the lock and drawing the deadbolt, or from dragging an old heavy armoire into his room and pushing it up against his door. He hasn’t slept in two days. He’s survived longer.

 

-

 

He spends the four hours in the shooting range one night, and his ears are ringing and his left arm aches from the recoil and his right shoulder feels like it’s burning but he keeps firing, only stopping to reload, and his hands shake but he doesn’t drop the gun, doesn’t loosen his grip, even when his knuckles turn white and his fingertips are purpled with blood.

 

Every bullet fired is a new knot in his stomach, the ricochet a heartbeat pulse taunting him with its steadiness.

 

He keeps firing his gun, and the chamber clicks empty.

 

-

 

Sam’s sitting in library, trying to read, trying to find a way to fix his brother, make him pure again, and he wants to laugh, because isn’t it every kind of unfair that he’s spent his entire life choking on the murk of his tainted little breaths, and here he is, looking for ways to clear out the same filth from his _brother_ ; but his vision is blurring over, and he can’t bring the words into focus and he’s on his fifth cup of coffee for the day, but he needs to stay awake, needs to stay awake, needs to stay awake. He can hear Dean’s footsteps echoing nearby, and it takes everything in him not to run.

 

Dean’s always been a pacer, and he’s been doing a lot of pacing for the past week. _Cabin fever, Sammy. A man’s gotta work_. It’s been reassuring, knowing that that hasn’t changed, that Dean is still Dean is still Dean. But his footsteps are loud in that confident way that makes him think of holes in drywall and an empty bed full of vague notes and a lack of dead brother and _your very existence sucked the life out of my life_ and _fuck_ , he can’t.

 

He doesn’t make the conscious decision to move, but he’s under a table, and he’s not screaming, not yet, but his breaths are coming faster, and he can hear a humming sound that he can’t place and it takes him a minute but he realizes that it’s _him_ , he’s humming, toneless and loud and unsteady, and his fingernails are digging into his palms until he draws blood.

 

Hands wrap around his own and there are shushing sounds, and he knows that voice, knows those stupid fucking reassurances, and _god_ , he wishes he was screaming, that would be easier, because he’s pulling his hands away from Dean’s and fucking _whimpering_ and he’s going to die under a table he barely fits under, and he has a fleeting thought that this is what a coffin feels like, death and fear and no air no air no air _no air_.

 

“Sammy! Hey, hey, hey, Sammy, You’re okay, you’re okay. Come on, breathe-“

 

Fuck. Death shouldn’t sound like Dean. It’s too much of a kindness and a cruelty wrapped up in one.

 

A hand touches his busted shoulder, and fuck _no_. He’s _done_ with touching.

 

He pulls away from the hand and shoves himself out from under the table and draws himself up to his full height.

 

“Don’t _touch_ me.”

 

He’s screaming now. Dean’s sprawled on the floor, eyes wide and shocked and green and fucking _human_ , but Sam’s done. He’s done. He’s _done_.

 

He runs.


End file.
